Fineane
by 88 Fish Swimming Backwards
Summary: Considering the fact that I'm a heroin addict and a telepath, running into a desperate detective was never on my to-do list, and neither was becoming said detective's private experiment. Well, I get a bed and some food for it, so why not?
1. Pained Resignation

"Stop it! Stop thinking so loudly! My head hurts, its so loud!" A young girl clutches her head on a park bench, shuddering as sobs wrack her body.

_What the heck? That girl is such a wierdo._

_What a freak. What is she yelling about?_

"Please? It hurts, stop thinking, I can hear you, it hurts so bad!" salty tears leak down her rosy cheeks as she tucks her knees closer to her chest. Her knuckles have grown white with the pressure in which she grips her throbbing skull.

_She needs to go to a hospital or something, that cannot be normal..._

_They need to lock her up in a crazy ward._

"No, stop it! I'm not crazy! I'm not-"

XXX

I sit up abruptly, gasping for breath, and calm as the flickers of memory fade, letting my body fall flat again. I fidget uncomfortably, finding a painful crick in my neck from the hard floor. A few old blankets never really supply for much padding, after all. I comb my fingers through my snow-white ringlets, trying to tame their sleep-tousled knots. My blood red eyes flick around the room, finding it just the same as it is every other morning I wake up. Miserable, fetid, dark, dull. Repulsive. Well, most drug dens are.

_More More MORE-_

_Want—Sad—need NEED- please_

_Where can I get my next hit?_

"Damn." I mutter, clutching my skull tenderly. The thoughts of the miserable souls around me are a murmur, merely background noise, for now. Of course, every wasted second lets it get louder. I scramble amongst my meager belongings, looking for just one more dose, enough to last until I can get more. Then again, if I can handle the headache, such a feat would be much easier to achieve with the use of my mind. I don't use the heroin because it feels nice, I use it to free myself. While under the influence, the world falls quiet. Quiet enough for me to sleep. Unfortunately, there isn't any more, so I am driven to pack up, the noise of London slowly heightening to a dull roar. I know if I don't get any more, it will be screaming by noon.

_Shit, I haven't got enough to pay him back! He's gonna have my head on a platter!_

_Out again. Gonna have to go find more..._

_Why is the ceiling always elephants? It would be more fun if it was different every time. Oh, is that flower talking? Hello flower._

_Damn, Finn's up. And she looks pissed too, better not stare. What a freak, that look makes you feel like she's picking your brain apart..._

I roll my eyes, carefully stepping over the bodies scattered about the floor. As I creep out to the street, I scan the surrounding area for someone with high quality. If I am going to endure the entirety of London's population tearing at my brain, I sure as hell will take the chance to get a few free hits.

_Yes! Check out this great collection! I really scored a deal off that idiot, I won't have to go lookin' for weeks!_

I chuckle. Poor sod, not for long. I take a seat on the low brick wall at my back, and gently weave a web around his mind with mine, compelling him to come to me. The boy's only a mile out, and I really doesn't want to walk that far.

XXX

I lean against a wall in an ally, feeling decidedly pissed at the fact that I had to resort to this crap again. If I really wanted to, I could drop the habit altogether, get a job, a flat, and maybe a few friends. And live in pain again, of course. Sleeping, might I say, is extremely difficult when one has a city of brains all trapped inside theirs. And thinking, for that matter. Everyone else is thinking, and it doesn't give me enough room to do any thinking of my own. Makes for a real pain in the ass. Like, all the time. Once again, I am directed back to the dilemma at hand. To take, or not to take? To hear, or to sleep? To have a life, or to have a brain to myself? Yes, quite the dilemma indeed.

I toss the old needle in a rubbish bin and turn the corner, feeling blissfully high as the word around me falls to silence. It really isn't a good habit, I know, but thinking by myself is just, so pleasant. And then there's the euphoria and exhilaration, which for me are merely nice side effects.

In books and movies, telepathy is always portrayed as the one with the powers delving into others brains, but in reality, its more like being constantly attacked by everyone else's thoughts. I don't get a choice, I always hear. Everyone within a relative ten mile radius, that is. If there's an upside to this little issue of mine, it's that I don't hear the entire planet's thoughts, just a tiny bit of it. Then of course, there's the problem that psychics aren't even supposed to exist. I don't know how it happened, but ever since I was really little I've been able to hear. I spent the first eighteen years in an asylum, because the idiots in charge decided to label it schizophrenia. Hearing voices, very not good, in the public's eye. By about thirteen I figured out how to hide it, at least from the hospital staff. I was let out five years later, dropped onto the street, a "healthy adult". Probably just wanted me off their hands, after all. Humanity doesn't take kindly to its freaks. Then, of course, I found my drug of choice, and I got the silence I wanted. Really not the healthiest method, but who can blame me? I'm just like the rest of the druggie population, getting high to get rid of my problems. Well, I suppose I haven't gotten rid of all of them, being the crazy lady relaying her entire life story to herself while wandering about aimlessly at two in the morni-

"Shit! Sorry, sorry, don't mind me." ducking my head in apology. Of course, it's just my luck that he doesn't just walk by like any sane man who had just smacked into a high homeless person. I quickly scrape together my dropped goods and continue on my way, only to be grabbed by the arm and spun around. I blink in surprise, really hoping I hadn't just slammed into a wandering cop who just so happened to see what fell out of my bag. I look up, prepared to spit a clipped "what?" but instead deign to just stare. The man is tall, and thin, with a messy shock of dark curls atop his head. He dons a black coat that falls to his ankles, and a blue scarf around his pale neck. His face is angular, with high, sharp cheekbones, and eyes a pale color that cannot really be described. Said eyes flick about my figure, searching, concentrated. He doesn't look the type to be venturing to this part of town, but that might explain the look of pained resignation behind the thin mask of calm and collected. When he speaks, his voice is deep and hushed, as if he doesn't want anyone to hear the conversation taking place. But there's no one around, unless he counts whoever sits behind those CCTV cameras all day.

"Have you any cocaine in that stash of yours?"

XXX(POV switch: SH)

John is going to kill me if he finds out. And then he'll tell Mycroft, who will bring me back from the dead just to kill me again. Which, if one thinks about it, is a really stupid saying, because people can only die once, and any sort of undead wouldn't care about being killed. But John won't let me smoke, and four patches didn't help one bit, and if I can use the case as an excuse to disappear for one night, they'll never know. Have I ever mentioned the fact that I despise book sorting? Even trying to crack that damn cipher, I was bored out of my mind, and John fell asleep on me. Considering the circumstances, I mean, there are lives at stake, this venture might be a necessary evil. I continue my undertaking, not searching for anyone in particular-

"Shit! Sorry, sorry, don't mind me." -but not expecting to run into anyone either. I pause, catching a glimpse of what I'm looking for in the muddle of her spilled possessions. She moves to walk past, but I catch her arm, spinning her back around to face me. She looks as if she wants to say something, but decided to stare instead, so I take my chance.

_White hair/skin, red eyes: albino? Plausible, yet to be confirmed_

_Accent: American, but hasn't been there awhile, has picked up a small London lilt_

_Hair is curly but tangled, natural color dulled by dirt: little regard for hygiene_

_Slightly blunted expression: under the influence... heroin: will fall soon... unusual, most this far in wouldn't be standing, never mind sanely walking around... more information needed._

_Brown bag: recreational drugs, doesn't plan to use all: selling/trading then_

_Dressed in many layers, carrying sleeping bag/ old blankets: homeless, returning for night_

_High quality coat/jeans: stolen: has a talent for it_

Deciding the information is enough, I move straight to the point.

"Have you any cocaine in that stash of yours?" She blinks, caught unawares, before glancing at her bag and looking back up.

"Uh, yeah." I try to contain my irritation at the less than intelligent response, deigning to bring this confrontation to a close as simply as possible.

"How much do you want for it?" she ponders this for a moment, her lazy red gaze flicking to the left then back at me.

"I don't know. Coffee sounds pretty good right about now." She blinks at me, and I pause for a moment, wondering if she knows just how much that quality of cocaine is worth, before deciding not to test my luck.

"Alright then." I spin and begin to walk in the direction of the nearest coffee shop, assuming that if she has any brains she will follow. Fortunately, after a second's hesitance, she does.

"Seriously? You're going to take me to coffee?" I nearly roll my eyes in exasperation at the obviousness of that statement.

"Yes."

"Cool. What's your name then?"

"Sherlock Holmes." I suppose if she doesn't recognize me already it wouldn't hurt to add to my homeless network.

"Well, don't you sound posh." we fall into silence after that, with only our footsteps to break it. By the time we reach the shop, I notice she has started her crash, a slightly pained expression marring her features. When we enter, she collapses into the nearest chair, massaging the bridge of her nose with two fingers. She mumbles something about 'stupid human brains', then asks for a large black coffee. I scowl at being ordered around, but make my way to the cashier anyway. The shop is mostly empty, save for a plump man deeply immersed in a copy of "London A-Z" (foreigner, based on the cheap trinket attached to his bag and dark tan), and a woman deep in conversation with her coworke- no, boss, over the phone (having affair with said boss, according to the nervous speech pattern and faint blush). The cashier takes my order (two black coffees, one with two sugars) and prepares them efficiently (been a coffee shop worker for a while, an easy job to handle while working through university). I pay and take our drinks back to currently-unnamed woman, and set them on the table. She sits slumped with one hand buried in her hair (headache, possibly verging on migraine), and groans when I sit across from her.

"Fineane." she says, and I narrow my eyes at the answer to my unasked question. "But I prefer Finn. Has anyone ever told you that you think really loud? Its killing my head." she promptly picks up her coffee and chugs half of it, before smacking it back on the table. I ponder her statement momentarily, but dismiss it as nonsense. Finn stares off into space for a few seconds, before crinkling her nose in disgust.

"Seriously? I really did not need that mental image just now, thanks." She mumbles, glaring through her bangs at the woman on the phone. I tilt my head slightly to the left, not sure exactly what to make of that act either. Her gaze flicks back to me, and she asks "So, Sher, are evil big brother and overbearing doctor flatmate gonna kill you if they find out? Cuz lemme tell ya, your silly crossword puzzle ain't worth a relapse." my entire train of thought screeches to a stop, and my eyes snap back to her face, but her lazy red gaze gives me no hint.

"How did you know?" Finn shrugs, and taps her temple.

"I just do. Say, I'm feeling a bit peckish, want anything?" I shake my head, caught totally unawares by the sudden inquiry, still caught on the fact that the only way for the woman to know that information is if she read my mind, which is a simply ridiculous notion. Said woman shrugs, before lazily drifting her gaze toward the cashier, who proceeds to take a cinnamon roll out of the small display case and bring it over, leaving it in front of her before returning to his post, as if the entire event hadn't happened. My brow furrows, and a thousand different possibilities flick through my head, dismissed just as quick as they came. Finn massages her temple with one hand and shovels cinnamon roll into her mouth with the other, before sending me a scowl.

"Seriously, dude. Shut up. Can't you see I've got a headache? It's hard enough thinking with the surrounding three idiots in my head, never-mind your super-brain. I can read and compel minds, does that answer your question? It's really not worth the trouble though, what with the eternal racket from hundreds of other people in my head. And people wonder why I'm high all the time." I blink. Once, then twice, then open my mouth to start a sentence, before snapping it shut again.

"Prove it." I state, finding myself drawn to the impossibility. It's kind of like a puzzle, and everyone knows I can't resist those. Finn gives me an exasperated glare.

"Must I? I'd rather just head to the nearest ally and shoot up. No need to prolong the issue."

"So heroin stops it? Is it only heroin or-"

"Yes, just heroin. I've tried other... less damaging products but none have had the same effec- Oh. So that's what he's doing. I couldn't figure it out. Fatty over there is decoding a cipher for some Chinese smuggling ring. What a weirdo." Oh! I whip my head around so fast it hurts, narrowing my eyes at the 'tourist' I had dismissed before, and of course, now it's obvious, his posture says nervous, and he's guarding the papers (I had originally thought were maps) from prying eyes. The bag with the cheap trinket is full, and when he shifts I can hear the crinkle of paper (something wrapped: valuable), and the book: "London A-Z", a book everyone owns. I stand, planning to make a mad dash for the flat, before remembering my companion, and the reason I ended up here in the first place. I narrow my eyes slightly, debating whether it would be worth bringing the dirty homeless girl with me, if only until I have her figured out.

"Sure." she says. I raise an eyebrow quizzically, and in return she rolls her eyes. "sure, I'll be your experiment in exchange for a place to stay and some food to eat. The concrete floor at my most recent hole in the wall really isn't calling." I nod, and she quickly picks a few vials of heroin out of her brown bag and stuffs them in the wrapped sleeping bag, before leaving the rest abandoned on the floor to follow me out.

"Oh yeah, your-" Finn moves to go back inside, but I shake my head.

"Don't need it." She turns back around and shrugs.

"Suit yourself." I wave down a taxi and we pile in, (or I sit gracefully and she piles) and I direct the cabby to 221B, Baker Street. I silently pray Lestrade doesn't find the need for another untimely drugs bust, and kind of wish my new puzzle wasn't an addict-

"Come on man, I have to sleep sometime. Sure, I can go about four days, if I have plenty of food, but that doesn't mean I won't need to collapse for a good 16 hours afterward." I nod, finding the excuse reasonable, for now, before flicking through my best hiding places where she can put it.

XXX(POV switch: F)

The ride to Sherlock's flat is awkward, to say the least. My head feels like it's seconds from splitting and spilling my brains all over the back seat of this taxi, and his presence really isn't helping. Seriously, could he think any louder? Just remember, if I stick with him I get a bed. A real bed. And food.

_The best spot would have to be underneath the loose floorboard, but I've used that before... maybe between the couch cushions? Less likely to be checked. Under the skull might do as well, or in the fireplace. I suppose I could let her use my slipper..._

The list, apparently, goes on and on. Frankly, I don't want to know about the skull or the shoe, so I direct my attention away from his hurried thoughts. The cabby is pondering whether or not he can get away with taking the roundabout way, the owner of a store somewhere to the left wishes he didn't need to stay open until four in the morning, a child in a flat on the right is dreaming about fire-breathing dinosaurs, and I wish I didn't know, because such trivialities of others really aren't my business.

By the time we reach Baker Street, it's 3:54 AM, according to the insomniac somewhere vaguely north, and all I really want to do is curl up in a ball and wallow in my misery. Sherlock leads me through the dark green door with it's brass knocker, and up the steps into his flat, which, evidently, is full to the brim with crates of books. There is a desk, which is covered by a smaller man with dishwater blonde hair and an ugly jumper, along with more stacks of books. There are two armchairs, which can barely be seen behind the crates, and a couch (also spilling book stacks). There's a kitchen, which is messy with various ongoing experiments and lab equipment, and a microwave oven, which if my eyes aren't fooling me, has a bowl of human eyeballs inside.

What have I gotten myself into?

Ok, soooooo. This is a bit of an experiment on my part, I've had the idea swimming around in my head for quite awhile, and I just wanted to see how it went. Anyway, in case anyone's confused, this starts in about the middle of the blind banker, and for the sake of the story, let's pretend that while sherlock and John were sorting books, John fell asleep and sherlock got bored. So, just bear with me here. I really need the reviews, kinda looking to see where I stand with this.

~Fish


	2. The Inevitable

I decide the safest course of action in this situation is to flee the scene. That said, there really isn't anywhere to run. Then I remember that I haven't showered in three or four days, and see an escape route.

"So, um, would you be terribly bothered if I use your shower? I... uh... kinda haven't cleaned up in awhile." Sherlock nods distractedly, and waves in the general direction of the kitchen. Investigating a bit, I realize there's a small hallway that branches off into the bedroom and bathroom. I leave my meager collection in a corner near the couch, and make my way back to the bathroom. Said bathroom is decently sized and relatively average, with a shower head over the bathtub and a curtain, a toilet with a lid, and a sink with a bottle of soap and a can of shaving cream. I undress and move to turn the water on... but am startled by the large pile of cow (?) intestine in the bottom of the tub. I give a very long, very exasperated groan, before grabbing a random towel and storming back into the living room.

"Sherlock Holmes! Why is there intestine in your bathtub?"

"Because I put it there."

"And how do you shower with an intestine in your bathtub?"

"I use John's."

"What? Since when have you used my shower?"

"um..." _Since two weeks ago._

"That intestine has been in there for two weeks?!"

"How did you know?"

"Because you thought it, dumbass!"

"Uh, Sherlock, who is she anyway?" _Where did she come from, why is she here... wait did she just read his mind?_

"Not now John."

"Yes John, I just read his mind. Sherlock! You have to go move the rotting intestine!"

"No."

"Wait, what?"

"Are you sure you want to refuse?"

"Yes."

"Fine." I clench my teeth and shut my eyes, bringing one hand up to my temple. To teach him a lesson, I allow him consciousness, but force his body to do what I want it to. He gets a slightly panicked expression on his face when his feet start to move of their own accord, which quickly switches to confusion when he enters the bathroom, then intrigue when he comes out carrying the intestine in his arms. I direct him downstairs, where I move him out the door and to the dumpsters, there the intestine is dropped, and I leave him to climb the stairs back to the flat by himself. Giving a pained groan at the heightened ache the ordeal caused, I march back into the bathroom and leave the two to their own devices.

I really needed this shower. Even though I've never been the most particular about hygiene, going four days without even a face wash is nasty. My hair is so gross it doesn't even look white anymore, and my pale skin turns almost gray, not to mention the sticky texture of an extra layer of sweat. Anyway, after scrubbing my skin raw and washing through three layers of shampoo, I step out and dry off with the towel I grabbed earlier. Feeling wonderfully fresh and squeaky, I realize that all of my clothes are in the living room. Frowning, I look around and find a large red and green plaid robe hanging on the door. Deciding it will be acceptable for now, I wrap it around myself and head back to the living room, where I am greeted with one extremely annoyed detective and one royally confused doctor. I settle in for a long and tedious explanation, and make my way over to my things and dig around for the least smelly outfit of the lot. Settling on a baggy gray sweatshirt and some blue skinny jeans, I trudge back to the bathroom, change, return to the living room, clear the couch, and collapse into it with a huff of annoyance.

"So, y'all have questions. For the sake of your sanity, I'll wait for you to ask before I answer." I throw an arm over my eyes, and wait with little to no patience for the inevitable questioning to begin. And because I am preoccupied with the tedious task of formulating answers to all of John's unasked questions, I am caught completely unawares by Sherlock's sudden inquiry.

"We should go out tonight." _we need to investigate a circus._

"What?" John and I ask at exactly the same time, before John gives a sigh.

"Sherlock, I have a date."

"What?" I almost snicker at the blank look Sherlock gives him.

"It's when two people who like each other go out and have fun." John explains. _And then go home and get some afterward. _

"That's what I was suggesting." the urge to laugh is almost overpowering by now, the whole conversation has been just ludicrous.

"No, it wasn't." _especially not the afterward._ How is a man as brilliant as he such a total idiot? "At least I hope not." Sherlock stares in silence for a moment, forming his next question.

"Where are you taking her?"

"Cinema and dinner."

"Dull. Try this?" He hands John a pair of circus tickets. _I'll just buy another and show up after him, then we can investigate the smugglers' hideout. _

"Um... Ok?" oh, that guy is such a bastard. You don't just turn someone's date into an investigation. With this in mind, I decide to very discreetly save John's ass in the books of his girlfriend, and plant the idea in his mind to go to the cinema anyway, and just not tell Sherlock. Hopefully, I will be able to keep the man distracted. John, on the other hand, has returned to the questioning train of thought, and I resign myself to the inevitable.

"Who are you?"

"Fineane Nephetyrie." yeah, I know its a mouthful, but it fits. An exceptional name for an exceptional person, as they say.

"Why are you here?"

"Experiment." I lazily gesture towards Sherlock who is distracted by his own cipher breaking. _9 Mill for..._

"Whats this whole deal with Mind-reading, and what did you do to Sherlock earlier?"

"I'm psychic. I don't read minds so much as get unwillingly barraged by the thoughts of others in an approximate 10 mile radius. I also have compulsion abilities, which allows me basic idea planting to total mind-control, depending on how much of a headache I want afterwords." After this statement, John gives me a wary look, his thoughts turning disbelieving and protective.

"Why do you look like you just came down from a high?" I sigh, and Sherlock tenses slightly, his overactive imagination jumping to overdrive with all the possible ways his earlier intentions for the night could be revealed. I decide the safest method to deal with this would be to tell the truth on my part but formulate a lie on his.

"Because I did." John turns to Sherlock, intending to interrogate him for the reason he brought a druggie home with him, experiment or no. discreetly, I plant my lie in his memory next to what actually happened, and give him a sly grin as he casually relays running into me on his way back to the museum where he believed the book 'Soo Lin' had been using to decipher the code would have still been. John, thankfully, believes the story, and with one more curious glance in my direction, gives a huge yawn and makes an excuse to go back to sleep, up in his own room.

Left in silence with Sherlock, my mind involuntarily begins to pick up the vague thinkings of those closer to the range limit, and my head gives a painful throb. I resign to let it wander, knowing that trying to restrict what I hear will only make it hurt worse.

_That alarm is really too loud, it scared me shitless!_

_Looks like I'm having Wheaties for breakfast again. ew._

_Come on mom, five more minutes!_

_Oh, I really shouldn't have stayed up gaming last night, I hope I don't fall asleep during the exam today... my grade is bad enough already!_

_Where did I put that new bag of dog food again?_

_Don't tell me I'm late for my meeting!_

_Stupid city traffic. I need to move out to Surrey._

_Ooh, paid double if I get there in 15 minutes. I should probably try not to do anything illegal._

_Thank God I made it on time, another tardy and I would've been fired._

_I love days off. Sleeping is so nice._

_I don't wanna go to work. My feet hurt. My back hurts. I should just call in sick._

_I'm gonna get pissed tonight. It's been an extremely long week, I deserve it._

_I hate the night shift. Nothing ever happens, it's ridiculous that they need employees all night anyway._

_Ah! Yes! Harder, baby! Fu-_ I quickly blot out that train of thought with a disgusted expression, and pull back into my own mind, opening my eyes. Well, those seemed to be acceptable Friday morning thoughts overall. I sit up with a groan, realizing that what I thought was a few minutes of mind wandering was actually a few hours, and realize with an annoyed face what happened. I haven't fallen into a zone for years, ever since I started the Heroin really. With an irritated huff, I pick my way through the stacks of books to the fireplace, and begin picking through the ashes for the slipper Sherlock hid there.

"What are you doing?" I only delayed the inevitable by waiting for him to voice the question, but for a smart guy you'd think he would figure it out... oh, he did. "No, no, none of that. You say you can't sleep without it but I've witnessed you passed out on the couch for hours now." he plucks me up by my hood and deposits me on the couch with a growl. Of course, the action only pisses me off, just because I'm only 5 feet tall and weigh 108 pounds doesn't mean I should be picked up like a child.

"Please, you of all people should know that when someone is immobile with their eyes closed it doesn't necessarily mean they are asleep." his mind speedily sorts through the possible explanations dismissing a few and analyzing some others, and for three minutes we stare silently at each other, until he draws up his preferred idea and displays it at the forefront of his mind.

"Close, it wasn't as much a mental shut-down as it was a metal overload. I call it a zone, and it happens when my body falls into a relaxed state and I leave my mind to do as it pleases. It's the reason I can't sleep, because I involuntarily fall into a zone instead of sleeping, and instead of regenerating my body my brain ventures out and gathers excess information. Before I found heroin and it's perks, I had to use strong sedatives to knock myself out in order to rejuvenate. Nasty business, that was."

"Interesting... but don't take any now, I need you at full mental capability for this evening. I plan to experiment over the course of an investigation." I mentally groan in despair, but before I can put on my complaint face, the doctor walks downstairs, looking wonderfully well rested. Oh, how I envy him. I listen as he takes in my pouty face and Sherlock's loom, comes to a conclusion, and goes into stern doctor mode.

"I will not allow you to take drugs, or be high in this flat, Fineane, no matter how mentally talented or interesting you are. Would you like some tea?" I make a face at the mention of tea (Some Londoner I am, but it's gross. I did grow up in America after all.). Unfortunately, with the both of them on my case, I'll likely not get any, so I deign so sulk instead.

"It's Finn, and no, I would definitely not like tea." I pout harder, pull up my hood, and roll over to face the inside of the couch, making sure to radiate my displeasure. Yes, I know I'm being rude, but I think John and Sherlock would both prefer it to me manipulating their minds so they allow it. Besides, if I don't actively participate in these experiments, I'll probably be kicked out.

"I want coke." I state, and roll my eyes when the stupid British idiots automatically jump to the wrong conclusion. "No, you morons, I don't want _cocaine_ I want _Coca-Cola._ You know, the carbonated sugary brown stuff? Somebody fetch it for me." I demand. My headache and foul mood inevitably make me much more disagreeable than usual, but at this level of exhaustion, if I don't either sleep or get some coke, I will be extremely pissy all day. John rolls his eyes and actively ignores me, being familiar with how do deal with childlike sulks. Sherlock, however, looks at me with a thoroughly repulsed expression on his face.

"You actually _drink_ that schmuck?"

"Well, when I'm not high, I actively live off it. Why do you care?"

"Its _foul_."

"Too bad. Go fetch me some."

"Never."

"How much you wanna bet?" He opens his mouth, actively planning to bet some ridiculously high amount of money, before remembering who he's talking to and stopping in his tracks. "Or better yet, would you rather go willingly or by force?" I smirk to myself as he struggles with an answer, before coming to a reluctant conclusion.

"By force." For the experiment. I wrap my tendrils around his mind, and tie in the intense need to buy an excessive amount of Coca-Cola, right in there with his deepest desires. (Which, for his privacy, I don't look at.) Immediately, he stands, grabs his wallet and rushes out of the flat, without even putting on his coat or scarf. To my surprise, he returns, looking panicked, and demands John return his credit card, before storming out again. John warily returns to the living room with his cup of tea. _What's gotten into him?_

"The intense need to buy an excessive amount of Coca-Cola. He's probably made a mad dash for the nearest Tesco. He'll be back soon enough." though initially startled by my answer to his unasked question, John simply nods, and resigns himself to an elevated weirdness level for awhile. Frankly, I'm surprised by his capability to just roll with it. We sit in silence, John sips his tea, and I do times tables I my head to avoid zoning.

"Well, I'm off to work at the surgery, avoid doing anything drastic... stay sober. I'll be back later." I nod absently and he leaves. As I wait for Sherlock to return, I distractedly wander the flat, less likely to zone while up and moving. A few moments after John's exit, the doorbell rings, and I march down to answer it.

"Hello, you have reached the Sherlock residence. Would you like to leave a message?" I probably should have been paying more attention, but the neighbor across the street is thinking about some very interesting conspiracy theories, and I don't notice until it's too late that the man at the door fully intends to kidnap me. Lovely.

**XXX**

well, that took _waaay_ too long. so sorry, but i get slightly paranoid about minor mistakes, so i spend excess time checking my work. hope you enjoyed, comments will be appreciated ;)

~Fish


End file.
